


Probation

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Fight Sex, Gunplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Do this right, and you'll be in work for months</em>, he'd said. Prove I'm trustworthy, and I won't have to worry about money any time soon. So I step out of the alley, knife in hand, and get to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Probation

Right on time, the mark gets out of a cab and starts making his way down the road towards me. I'm tucked away in the shadows of an alley, watching him like I'm just another rat skulking around near the bins. I get a good look at the guy as he passes by underneath a streetlight. Must be twice my age. No scars, nice coat, neat hair and a nasty look on his face. Suddenly I'm not too keen on this job. Or rather, I am, but for the wrong reasons. A bit of me twitches and crackles, and I have to force it down to the back of my mind, grit my teeth and get on with it.

 _Just the wallet_ , my new employer had said, abrupt and cold on the end of the phone. _Anything else on him, you can take._ Fair enough, but what else is he going to have on him? Maybe some of his cash might just happen to 'fall' out of the wallet as I'm taking it? No, it'd be stupid to risk it. This is a test, after all, and there's no point messing it up for the sake of a little bit of money. _Do this right, and you'll be in work for months_ , he'd said. Prove I'm trustworthy, and I won't have to worry about money any time soon. So I step out of the alley, knife in hand, and get to work.

"Got the time?" I say, and he turns around to face me. His eyes are on the blade of my knife straight away, and he doesn't reply. He knows what's coming. He doesn't look scared, though. Probably thinks he's got the advantage, being taller and heavier. Well, we'll see how that works out for him.

"Hand over your wallet, or I’ll fuck you up." I come a little closer, and he laughs. Laughs in my face. I lunge at him, and suddenly I can see why there's no fear in his eyes. He knocks my hand aside like it's nothing, grabs my wrist and _squeezes_ , hard enough to make me yelp like a wounded dog. The knife falls to the ground, clattering against the concrete, and he kicks it away casually. It slides under the bins, out of reach, and there goes my chance of passing this test. But I can't just give up.

So I barrel into him, try to knock him over, anything to get him on the back foot. He doesn't move, he's too heavy for me to make a dent in his balance, so I just end up bruising my shoulder on his chest and reeling back like a stunned sparrow. Those iron fingers around my wrist tighten and twist, and suddenly he's got my arm wrenched up behind my back, steering me down into the alley. My arm might as well be a collar and leash.

There's something wrong and broken in my head, because a tight grip and a mean face gets my cock hard like nothing else. And obviously that's not something you want to flash about at anyone who happens to rough you up, so I've learned to cover it, to enjoy the cuts and bruises without showing a thing. But it's not working this time, and I don't know why. He shoves me up against the alley wall, pressing my chest right up against the bricks, and as I glance back over my shoulder at him, I can almost feel my pupils dilating. He looks at me, long and hard, and I _know_ he knows. He's spotted that look in my eyes, and he knows what it means.

And now things are either going to get very bad, or very, very good. I don't know which yet, so I put up a fight, kicking at his ankles, jabbing my free arm back to try to land an elbow in his ribs. A few blows connect, lightly, and I hear noises that could be snorts of laughter or grunts of pain. Then he's pressing up close behind me, and I can _feel_ him, hard and obvious against my ass. No force on earth could stop my body reacting to that, and my back arches like a cat's, pushing back against him.

Good thing my employer isn't here to see this. I'm failing this test spectacularly, and I think the only way this could be a bigger farce is if I actually handed my own wallet over to the guy. I need to keep fighting, keep trying, I've got to come back with _something_ to show the new boss. That's what I tell myself, as I flail my free arm back again, elbowing the guy hard in the ribs. Yeah, I'm not just trying to provoke him, not at all.

This jab is a good one, and the guy staggers back a little, and finally lets go of my right arm. _Alright_ , I think, _now I've actually got a chance of getting this back on track_ , and I turn round with both fists up, ready to go. But by the time I face him, he's already swinging the palm of his hand down towards my face, and damn there's some strength in that arm, because the blow dazes me and I stand there stupidly for a moment, trying to clear my head.

"You'll fuck me up, will you? Cheap little punk like you?" He grabs hold of my shoulders and shoves me back against the wall, hard enough that I can feel the roughness of the brick through my jacket. "Don't make me laugh."

And then with an almighty pull he shoves me down just as he's bringing his knee up into my stomach, and all the air rushes out of me like rats off a sinking ship. I hit the floor hard, doubled up and wheezing, and the pain in my stomach is all twisted up with the thrill of the fight, making me reckless and hungry for more. When he grabs hold of my hair and yanks my head up, I have to blink to clear my eyes enough to focus on him. Something dark and polished gleams in his hand. My eyes runs along the barrel of the gun, my mouth goes dry and my cock twitches, and I think: _this right here is exactly why you're not going to live to see thirty._

"Up," he says, gesturing with the gun, "on your knees."

I do as I'm told and push myself upright, and the whole time I'm watching the orange light of the streetlamps glinting off the metal, letting my eyes drink in the hard dark lines of it. I can almost _taste_ the thing. My hands settle behind my back, clasped together neatly by force of habit, and I wonder if he notices the pose. A quick glance up at his face tells me nothing, his eyes are as dark and hard as the metal of the gun, and I can't read them now. So I move my eyes back down to the revolver, watching as he brings it closer, keeping exactly still as he traces the muzzle of it along my cheekbone.

The steel is cold and smooth against my skin. I can't help closing my eyes at the touch of it, like a cat being petted, and I clench my fists as my whole body tenses for a moment. The muzzle moves down, slowly, down until it's resting against my lips, and he only has to apply the slightest bit of pressure before my lips part and I let him push the barrel into my mouth. For a moment I just savour the taste of it, the bitterness of the metal against my tongue. Then I feel his hand gripping the back of my neck, and when I open my eyes he's looking down at me like he's watching an animal performing, like I'm a dog doing tricks.

He moves the gun in and out of my mouth slowly, smoothly, rubbing the barrel against my lips until they're sore and throbbing. I flick my tongue out to lick at it as he pulls back, and I can see the lust in his eyes now. Lust and amusement and approval, and the barest hint of a smile on his lips. He pulls the gun out of my mouth one last time, and I make a little noise of protest but I'm already thinking about what comes next, how empty my mouth feels and how much I want to taste him.

And then he brings the gun down hard across my cheek, too fast to block, and my cheekbone blazes white-hot with pain. The blow knocks my head to the side, and I'm grateful for the hand he's still got cupped around the back of my neck, because without it I'd probably be sprawled out on the ground right now. The left side of my face throbs and aches in time with my heartbeat, and when the muzzle of the gun presses against my temple, I want to lean into it, to feel the coldness of it against my burning skin.

"Let's see if you're any better at sucking cock than you are at wielding a knife," he says, and before he's even finished the sentence I've got my fingers working the zip of his fly down. I slide his cock into my mouth, taking it about halfway on the first few passes, easing myself into the rhythm slowly before I push my lips down to the base and take the whole length. He's right, I'm better at this than I'll ever be in a fight. I suck his cock hungrily, making muffled little appreciative noises each time the head of it batters against the back of my throat, and I can't resist moving my free hand down to palm at my own cock through my jeans. He must spot the movement, because the gun taps lightly against my temple, warning me off. I take the hint and put my hand back down.

A wrong move and this could all end very badly, but my body doesn't care and it's screaming out to be touched, so it takes all of my self-control to keep my free hand braced on my thigh. _Later_ , I tell myself, _after all this is finished_. But the noises humming in my throat start to sound less hungry and more petulant, and I know I sound like a pet begging for scraps. My rhythm is fast and shallow now, and the hand in my hair tells me he likes that tempo, so I keep it up and ramp up the pressure, sucking and licking at him like I'm trying to drain him dry. _Concentrate on the job at hand_ , I tell myself, and the thought makes me want to laugh; maybe this should be my line of work, maybe I'd make a better kept boy than a hired thug. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, with the right keeper.

He groans, and the sound snaps my attention back to where it should be. I pull back just enough that he can feel my tongue working him, and brace myself as he starts to come. My mouth is flooded with the taste of him, hot and bitter, and I look up at him as I swallow, keeping my eyes locked on his. Maybe it's an unwise move, maybe it's impertinent, but I want to see his face. I want to see him watching me as I take it, I want to see what he looks like watching a boy drink his come, and if there's the slightest shred of approval in his eyes then I damn well want to see it. But I can't read his expression, and even as he pulls out I don't know whether he's impressed or indifferent. And then the hand in my hair lets go, and he smiles down at me, steps back, and pulls the trigger.

A click. Nothing but a click, and the nastiest laugh I ever heard.

"What, you think I'd waste a bullet on a punk like you?" He says, holstering the gun.

I just look at him, and my eyes must be as wide as saucers.

"Get up," he says, turning on his heel and gesturing for me to follow. "You're hired."


End file.
